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Chicken Scratch: What else is there to do? Aging, attention, and becoming — by Elizabeth Beggins

July 19, 2025 by Elizabeth Beggins Leave a Comment



It’s time for my annual pilgrimage.Not the sort a friend just made, walking blisters onto her feet and renewal into her soul on the Camino de Santiago, but with parallels, nonetheless. Something went wrong every day, she said, starting with a canceled flight, but it was still an incredible experience.
“Yes,” I think. “That.”They say aging is a test of endurance. I say, so is living. Every day, I face my demons. There are no shortcuts. And so far I’m still at it, because despite themselves, they can’t keep me from what’s miraculous, precious, or beautiful. Pilgrimage – photo by the author Here’s something precious: This community loves a woman named Carol. As a volunteer managing social media for the local farmers market—an institution I helped launch 28 seasons ago—I shared a photo of her with a few simple words: This is Carol. Carol shops at the farmers market every week. Even when it rains. Even when it’s hot. Even when other people stay home and grumble about parking. Carol is smart. Carol is kind. Carol has seen a lot in her years—and she still chooses joy. She rolls up weekly, picks out the best of what the market has to offer, and always has a kind word for the farmer. Everyone smiles when Carol is here. Be like Carol. The world needs more Carols. 🌻💛 The post has garnered close to 300 reactions and a flurry of supportive comments. Carol is almost 90. She wears compression socks, uses a rollator, doesn’t stand as upright as she once did. And she is utterly delightful. Here’s something beautiful: Last week, at the same farmers market, I approached a stand run by a couple I’ve known for many years, two people who have endured a lot. She walked away just as I arrived, her husband watching with weariness and worry, saying how unfair it is, what life has done to her. She’s been leaving with greater frequency, the result of progressive cognitive decline and imagined offenses she typically blames, without cause, on him. I offered to go after her, see if I could encourage her to come back. I remember how my mom struggled as my dad’s capacities deteriorated, how he accused her of having an affair when she left for a meeting, or a short trip out of town. Just as she reached the edge of the road, I met up with my wandering friend, called her name, put my hand on her shoulder. “It’s Elizabeth,” I said. “Would you like to walk back this way with me?” “Did he send you after me?” she asked, frowning. “No. I just wanted to hold your hand for a little while.” On the short but slow journey back, we talked about how she’d just as soon not be here anymore and about how we were wearing the same color. I told her how nice it felt in the shade of their tent, and how the breeze made all the difference. I asked her what she’d call the color we were wearing. We landed on peach, or salmon. By the time I moved along, she seemed to have forgotten that she was angry. Other than good fortune, there is nothing standing between me and the end of my life. This has been true since the day I was born. That I’m still here, moving through my sixties, feels nothing short of miraculous. I’ll take all of it I can get. (I’ll get back to you on that when it hurts more to be here than I imagine the leaving will.) I know the clock is ticking, which means the chance to grow older is like winning the lottery every damn day. Watch! photo by the author So, I will live. Soften. Ripen. Practice being who I think I want to be. I will savor my days, knowing it only takes a hint of sweetness to balance the sour, the bitter, the salty. As my body fades, I’ll amplify my light. As it falters, I’ll amplify my love. Send them both to the places they’re needed most—which, of course, is everywhere. What else is there to do? Think about that for a minute, would you? Think about the wonder of living. Of all the options, we’ve arrived here. This morning, we opened our eyes, wiped away the crust, made our way into some kind of day. Have you looked around lately? Really looked? At the ants crossing the threshold? The plants sprouting on the doormat? The faded sign, the sagging flag, the flowers in the window? At the sloped shoulders of the guy getting home from a 12-hour shift, at the woman and the dog who go past every morning and evening? What kind of dog is it again? Good god, we’re alive! I just had a birthday, and I’m not about to be quiet about it. What a remarkable thing it is to be born at all, to live at all. I am on a pilgrimage. This can only ever be a solo journey, a well-traveled path curving with the pulsing current of humanity, conversations slipping over worn stones that ask how I’ve been, where I’ve been, where I’m headed. A pair of trees, once small as wrists, stand textured and stately. In their canopies live the dreams I lifted up long ago. Looking up from the shadows, I see them pirouette overhead, responding to forces beyond their control: now rain, now bird, a blast of wind, a fallen friend. My body is this path. My legs are these trees. My arms, branches. My dreams still dreams, but with deeper roots. I am noticing what’s here, holding what’s here, loving what’s here. I don’t know what I’m becoming. But I’m calling it wondrous. Andrea Gibson: August 13, 1975 – July 14, 2025

An audio version of this essay, read by the author, is available here.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in realistic optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, become a free or paid subscriber here.

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What is the Game Today? By Al Sikes

July 18, 2025 by Al Sikes 1 Comment

The much-honored sportswriter, Roger Angel, writing in 1972 about baseball, while reflecting on sports, said, “Sports are too much with us. Late and soon sitting and watching—mostly watching on television—we lay waste our powers of identification and enthusiasm and, in time, attention as more and more closing rallies and crucial putts and late field goals and final playoffs and sudden deaths and world records and world championships unreel themselves ceaselessly before our half-lidded eyes. Professional leagues expand like bubble gum, ever larger and thinner, and the extended sporting seasons, now bunching and overlapping at the ends, conclude in exhaustion and the wrong weather.”

Fifty years later, Angel’s 1972 lament is especially biting. I recall it for the millions who play inside rather than outside. As Angel’s “time thinned product” invites boredom, today’s owners have spent billions on their boyhood fantasy, cynically pushing their captive audiences to buy more, pay more, and now bet more. It is said the all-in cost of an NFL game is $350-$600 for two persons, for example. The all-in cost of gambling is unknowable.

Bob Costas, a 29-time Emmy Award winner, and recognized as the National Sportscaster of the Year eight times, in a recent interview on sports gambling by his father said there was “a lot of trauma in our family life because he had a volatile temper and the mortgage was often riding on how his bets went….. he didn’t bet on, you know, cards or poker games or crap games or go to the racetrack. He bet on baseball, football, and basketball games.”

There was a time in the early 1970s when I played poker with five or six guys. During football season, we would meet at a friend’s business, and he would give us the Sunday football betting card. It was done quietly—betting on sports was illegal.

And there were the bets with my Dad. We would always bet on the Army-Navy game—he had been in the Army, so I always had Navy. The numbers were digestible; as I recall $10 tops (1950s dollars). I come to this topic initiated, but boy, how times have changed. Too often, stimulation has become the game.

Now my loyal ChatGPT assistant reports that “Online gambling is undergoing rapid, double-digit annual growth—driven by expansion in the U.S., mobile-first strategies, and immersive technology adoption.”

I suspect some of the growth momentum is caused by the micro-bet. Major League Baseball is investigating two specific pitches that Cleveland Guardian pitcher Luis Ortiz threw. Both pitches had a higher-than-usual number of bets placed on them — action that was flagged by a betting integrity firm.

Yes, there are essentially an infinite number of ways you can bet on sports these days. One of them is a micro-bet about what the first pitch of a given inning might be: ball, strike, swinging strike—well use your imagination.

As we “lay waste our powers of identification and enthusiasm,” our ultimate animal spirit object, money, has become the stimulus. The game becomes ours. We either win or lose; who cares who wins the game on the field or in the gym? We get to play regardless of how inanimate we choose to be.

Oh well, the cynical win. The new owners with their billions on the roulette wheel of life. They are the games rights holders; the networks ultimately deal with them. The rights holders mostly own monopolies. Viewers might find an off-brand football league, but of course want to watch their NFL team.

And then there are the middlemen who handle the transactions and the State agencies that provide the gambling licenses—they get a cut too. Maybe we should throw in that part of the health care community that intercedes with the addicted. Maybe that is the final cut.

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books.

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Summer Soundtrack by Angela Rieck

July 17, 2025 by Angela Rieck Leave a Comment

Each season has its own scent and soundtrack. I can close my eyes, ignore the temperature and know what season it is by these sounds and the scents.

Autumn brings the rustle from leaves being swept across the pavement, and the crunch from these leaves as we walk through them. Canada geese honk in the sky and crows caw to notify their kin of a newly harvested field. The air is dry and crisp, so the sounds from hunting and other machines are louder and more differentiated.

Winter is cold silence, especially the surreal quiet after a snowstorm, when every sound seems to be absorbed into the surroundings. When there is no snow, echoes and sounds are louder because there is no flora to absorb them. Most birds have migrated or gone into the woods; only the cars or the lonely sound of a dog barking remain.

Spring adds warmth to the cool air, and a natural perfume wafting from the flowering bushes and trees. When the rain comes, I hear the sounds of the rain pattering onto the pavement. The birds sing endlessly as they celebrate their return and prepare their nests for their families.

Summer is also unique. In the early morning, the paradactyl squawks from the great blue heron rookery on the nature trail echo in the sky as one parent returns from night duty and the other takes flight in the morning to hunt for food.

The whining lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and weed whackers punctuate the peaceful silence but leave the sweet smell of cut grass. There are mid-summer celebrations that bring loud pops and booms that pierce the night air.

Then there are the thunderstorms, miraculous and frightening events where bright lightening briefly illuminates the sky, followed by the clash of thunder. Just before the rain arrives, the air takes on a metallic scent. The rain is no gentle pitter-patter as in spring, instead it pounds the ground and slaps the windshield if you are unlucky enough to be driving through it.

The spring flowers are gone, but some scented flowers remain. The honeysuckle’s sweet smell lingers in the humid air, phlox and roses share their perfume.

Along the rivers and creeks there is a faint smell of brine, decay, and fish that lingers in the warm, humid aid. Blue-gray rivers wind leisurely around the green patches of cattails and woodland along their sandy banks. A cloudless, pastel blue sky is quiet except for an occasional lone osprey circling overhead. The houses lining the shore are grand and crisply painted, featuring long docks with shiny white sailboats and power boats.

Mid-summer also brings the ubiquitous farm stands. You can smell the sweet scent of corn, ripe red tomatoes; dark green zucchini with white speckles; creamy yellow squashes; green and white freckled pickling cucumbers; deep red-, green- and yellow-colored peppers. The fruits come and go with the seasons, mid-summer brings the sweet smells of peaches, cherries, dirt-encrusted cantaloupes, and watermelons of all shades of green.

The chirps and melodies by the birds are fewer in the summer, but their songs provide a soprano soundtrack in the hot, humid air. Summer brings the percussion instruments. The locusts whine, a low rambling hum that reaches a crescendo, slowly dwindles to silence and recycles. The large, annual cicadas emerge from their cocoons and add to the percussion section with a sound that resembles a mechanic’s ratchet. Their relentless beat has earned them the nickname “dog day cicadas.”

At dusk, I can hear the quail (bob white) calling. Only a few chirps and tweets remain as the rest of the birds settle down on their branches or nests for the evening. As darkness falls, the sounds quiet down, the fireflies sprinkle light, the summer heat rises from the pavement and the long day ends, only to repeat itself the next day.

There is something about summer, its soft, lazy days. But unfortunately, with this heat wave it is best enjoyed when at daybreak and during the comforting summer nights.

Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.

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Governing By Absence: Governor Moore Lands in Sun Valley

July 15, 2025 by Clayton Mitchell 1 Comment

“‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again…”

John Denver (“Leaving on a Jet Plane”)

They call it Billionaires Summer Camp. Tucked away in the rarefied air of Sun Valley, Idaho, the annual gathering of moguls, media titans, and monied elites is a weeklong networking bonanza for the ultra-wealthy. That is where Governor Wes Moore spent last week with his family in tow, while Marylanders opened their electric bills in stunned disbelief, sweating through the heat of July and the heat of a budget crisis his administration refuses to confront.

While Moore rubbed elbows with Jeff Bezos and other billionaires discussing tech investments and personal branding, back in Maryland his government was unraveling. Maryland’s Transportation Secretary, Paul J. Wiedefeld, announced this past week that he will step down from his position effective August 1. This was not a scheduled transition or a quiet retirement. It is the kind of departure that raises red flags about internal dysfunction, looming failures, or sheer exhaustion with the direction, or lack thereof, of state leadership.

For those keeping score, there have now been five Cabinet-level departures under Moore. That is not just turnover. That is instability. It is a clear sign that all is not well inside the walls of the Government House, even if the press releases pretend otherwise. The Moore administration has barely passed the halfway mark of its term, yet its inner circle looks like a game of musical chairs.

In addition, Maryland Labor Secretary Portia Wu warned that the state’s Unemployment Insurance Trust Fund may be in danger of insolvency, with federal workers and contractors being laid off amid uncertainty in Washington. This is not some hypothetical crisis. It is a flashing red warning sign that thousands of Maryland businesses could be left with higher unemployment taxes if the economy sours.

And once again, while the alarm bells were ringing, Moore was in Idaho sipping cocktails with financiers.

Meanwhile, state agencies face hiring freezes. School districts are staring down Blueprint mandates they cannot afford. And Maryland families? They are getting battered.

Electric rates, driven higher by Moore’s ill-conceived energy policies and our increased dependence on out-of-state power, have left residents stunned. Some Marylanders have told me their bill had nearly doubled compared to the same time last year. My electric bill was up 25%. But Moore would not know. He was not here.

It is the start of a new fiscal year, and the budget is already fraying. Moore’s idea of fiscal discipline is smoke and mirrors. The Rainy-day fund is draining. The structural deficit continues unabated. What is the administration’s solution? Raise taxes again, push the burden onto counties, and hope the federal government bails us out. This is not a strategy… it is desperation wrapped in press releases and photo ops.

What message does it send when the Governor flees to a luxury retreat while his state teeters on financial instability? It tells us exactly who he is.

Wes Moore is more comfortable with the Davos set than with working families in Dundalk, Salisbury, and Lexington Park. He is fluent in the language of venture capital, not the realities of paycheck-to-paycheck life. His presidential fantasy has taken hold of him while Maryland is left holding the bill.

Moore loves to say, “leave no one behind”, but last week, he left all of Maryland behind. He left us behind for the billionaires, for the backslapping and keynote panels, for the glint of cameras and canapés on white tablecloths.

If you are wondering whether he paid for the trip himself or if donors chipped in, good luck getting a straight answer. Transparency is not exactly a hallmark of the Moore administration.

We have seen enough. Wes Moore promised transformation. Instead, we have gotten vanity, virtue signaling, and vaporware. Maryland deserves better than a Governor who escapes to the mountains every time the temperature rises at home.

The cameras may still be rolling, but the people of Maryland are steadily tuning out the Wes Moore Show.

Clayton A. Mitchell, Sr. is a life-long Eastern Shoreman, an attorney, and former Chairman of the Maryland Department of Labor’s Board of Appeals. He is co-host of the Gonzales/Mitchell Show podcast that discusses politics, business, and cultural issues.

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Camp By Jamie Kirkpatrick

July 15, 2025 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

Our lives—at least mine, anyway—are the product of our choices and/or of random events that, at the time, seem almost inconsequential. I spent a long time in the sleepless wee hours of a recent morning thinking about this and came to the conclusion that I am exactly where I am supposed to be in this crazy universe.

That unraveling began with a dream, but as the clock ticked on toward dawn, it turned into a full-blown exegesis that introduced me to two essential types of people I have encountered along my way: my “spiritual guides” and my “sentinels.” The former helped me choose which fork in the road to take, while the latter kept me on my designated path until the next turning. Some of each were friendly or at least benign, others less so, but their attention never wavered. If I couldn’t always see my destination, I nevertheless both chose and followed the course set out for me, and now here I am, at camp.

I am fully aware that this probably sounds like a lot of New Age hooey, or at least, a layman’s attempt to understand the predestination/arminianism dilemma. The former suggests that divine intervention controls our lives; the latter belief presupposes that God’s sovereignty and human free will are not only compatible, but also equally determinant in our lives. Hmmm…

Is this going somewhere? Indeed, it is. To camp, specifically, to this “at-home camp” with four of our grandchildren while their parents get a much-deserved, but long-overdue (thanks to COVID), anniversary sojourn in Greece.

Now, don’t get me wrong: “camp” with these grandkids is hardly onerous duty. They are wonderful, kind, thoughtful children, and “camp” is their comfortable home which comes with a fully stocked refrigerator, a golf cart for neighborhood trips, a sports court, and a backyard swimming pool. Moreover, the kids’ schedule includes weekdays at honest-to-goodness school camps, so on those days, our daytime responsibilities were relegated to morning drop-off and afternoon pick-up at the appointed hours and appropriate locations. (Fortunately, Mom left us a very specific set of instructions.) And on the two weekends of our oversight duty, between tennis, pickle ball, swimming pool, and evening games, there was plenty to do.

Meals were joyous and boisterous affairs, and our “campers” were remarkably well-behaved as well as well-trained in the long-lost art of helping with clean-up and other household chores. Bed times were staggered: the youngest (age five) was ready to hit the hay by 7:30; the oldest (age twelve) had a 9:00 curfew. (My own bedtime wasn’t much later.) The days went by much too quickly, and what once might have seemed a marathon to me became a sprint that was over all-too-soon. Except Laundry Day. That was still a marathon.

But back to the age-old conflict between determinism and free will. On the night I tossed and turned examining all the threads in the tapestry of my life, I really did come to the conclusion that not only was this “camp”exactly where I was supposed to be, but also that my wife and her big, beautiful family were gifts of immeasurable value. Oh sure, we have our occasional spats, but without doubt, I am blessed beyond measure. All the roads I’ve taken, all their unexpected twists and turns, all their forks and dead ends, have inevitably brought me to this moment, this lovely “camp,” right where I am supposed to be, where I want to be, where I belong.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.

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From Motels to the Mandarin by Katherine Emery

July 15, 2025 by Kate Emery General Leave a Comment

When we were first married, my husband (who flew First Class with his parents and stayed at The Hotel Del Coronado and The Royal Hawaiian as a child) professed his love for “cheesy” motels, a revelation that surprised me, but I chalked it up to his love of Hunter S. Thompson. One of our first weekend adventures together was a bike ride on the Mt. Vernon Trail. In preparation, we checked into one of the oldest motels in Alexandria.

The toilet seat was secured with a paper ribbon of questionable authority, and the water glasses sat dismally in their individual clear paper sacks. The room was tiny, barely big enough to fit a double bed, let alone two people and their bike helmets. I was instantly repulsed, but I did my best to stay cheerful. Love, after all, sometimes asks for sacrifices… even in the form of questionable accommodations.

Thankfully, we spent very little time in the room. We rode the trail, showered quickly, and headed into town to meet friends for oysters and laughter. By the end of the night, I had almost forgotten the cracked tiles and flickering lightbulbs.

After a year of adventurous overnights in various questionable motels, each with its own flickering light, mismatched bedspread, and mysterious plumbing, I decided it was time to show my husband the other end of the lodging spectrum. For his birthday, I booked a weekend at The Ritz in Crystal City.

From the moment we arrived, the experience was different. We were greeted with glasses of champagne at check-in. Our room featured a sprawling king-sized bed, and the marble bathroom offered both a steam shower and a deep soaking tub. It was five-star pampering at its finest, and just like that, Matt joined me in my love of luxury hotels.

As the years passed, we upgraded our escapes. We treated ourselves to weekends at the Mandarin Oriental in Washington, D.C., complete with visits to the museums, time at the serene hotel spa, and unforgettable dinners at CityZen—Eric Ziebold’s exquisite restaurant, which he brought to life after his time at The French Laundry.

We also became fans of Kimpton’s boutique hotels sprinkled across D.C., each with its own personality, chic decor, and inviting restaurant. The happy hours were stellar, the service warm, and the locations perfect for a weekend of walking and sightseeing.

In New York City, our hotel tastes evolved with our travels. We spent nights at the iconic Waldorf, the bustling Grand Hyatt, and the ever-energetic Marriott in Times Square, each one adding to our shared collection of urban memories.

The summer of her fifteenth year, our daughter Cece, an aspiring dancer with beauty, grace, and fierce determination, was accepted to a prestigious dance camp at Hofstra University. After dropping her off and giving her one last wave, Matt and I found ourselves unexpectedly free for the weekend.

“Where should we go?” we wondered aloud, still a little dazed from the emotional whirlwind of letting go. Matt’s dad, John, had once mentioned Oyster Bay on Long Island. A quick search revealed promising wineries and quaint coastal vibes, we were sold.

We booked the last available room at what was generously described as a waterfront motel. Matt went inside to check us in and came back, not with a keycard, but with an actual key attached to a two-by-four block of lumber. I blinked. He blinked. “Well,” he laughed, “it’s late.”

The room itself was a time capsule. The fluorescent lighting buzzed and flickered with the enthusiasm of an interrogation room. The shag carpeting, straight out of the 1970s, had many stories to tell. Behind what appeared to be a wardrobe was a kitchenette, complete with a two-burner stove and a dusty coffee pot. The coffee grounds were pre-packed in foil pouches, possibly from the Carter administration.

The air conditioning was broken, replaced by a valiant old box fan propped in the window, rattling like it was clinging to life. The only thing missing was a chalk outline of a body on the floor, and even that felt like it could have been there the night before.

And yet, as with so many of our adventures, we made it work. We found a local spot serving lobster and crisp white wine, and returned to the motel just in time to catch the local news on a black and white TV. It worked, but only if one of us stood near it, holding the foil-wrapped rabbit ears just so.

For Cece’s first Thanksgiving away from home, we found ourselves in London, more specifically, at a Comfort Inn in Notting Hill. The Expedia photo had promised a charming boutique hotel nestled among elegant townhouses. In reality, we arrived at what could generously be called a well-worn establishment.

Our room was equipped with twin beds, a wobbly clawfoot bathtub strung with a sagging clothesline, and a TV no bigger than a lunchbox. There was a single window, but it didn’t open. The decor was an odd mix of floral carpet and suspicious lighting. Still, we were in London, and that counted for something.

Thankfully, the trip itself was wonderful. We explored endlessly, feasted on delicious meals, and marveled at all the sights that made London feel both grand and familiar. Matt particularly loved the London cabs, each one with a driver with a huge personality. Matt adapted to British currency very quickly (I, on the other hand, never fully recovered from the exchange rate.)

The pub in the hotel’s tiny lobby became a cozy spot to regroup. Matt befriended the bartender, who used tiny silver tongs to place exactly three cubes of ice into each of our water glasses, with the precision of a jeweler. It became part of our evening ritual.

One night, we asked for the non-smoking section at a restaurant. The hostess led us to a table in the center of the room. As we sat down, we realized that the only non-smoking thing about it was our request, every other table around us was filled with families smoking joyfully, children and grandparents alike puffing away in a festive haze.

It wasn’t the Thanksgiving of tradition, but it became one of those stories we would tell for years. And somehow, the uncomfortable beds, the smoky dinners, and the lunchtime-sized television made it all the more memorable.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

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Thoughts on the Texas Flash Floods by David Reel

July 14, 2025 by Dave Wheelan 1 Comment

The recent flash flood tragedy in central Texas resulted in seeing the best and the worst of American society.

The best has been an outpouring of sympathy, caring, and support for the flood victims, their families, and the survivors. There have been countless reports of selfless rescue and recovery efforts by first responders and volunteers, some from well beyond the immediate flooded area.

The worst has been numerous messages on social media and other media platforms, e.g., a newspaper editorial cartoon that were vile, hateful, and some of which were vulgar.

Many of them chose to blame Trump supporters or policy decisions of the Trump administration for this tragedy.

Far too many did not include expressions of sadness or sympathy for the deaths of innocent children and adults, or compassion for the lifelong impact on all the flooding survivors.

The level of vitriol in these messages is so offensive, I will not repeat any of them in this column.

The only thing they have in common is they are devoid of any sense of decency and civility.

Somewhat surprising has been dismay and even outrage expressed from unexpected sources over these vile messages.

Nina Turner is a former national co-chair for the Bernie Sanders 2020 presidential campaign.

She recently said, “It takes a serious lack of humanity to see children to be in a politicized discussion and respond something like lines of “that’s what they [voters in Texas] voted for.”

Turner’s closing one word comment says it all — “Shameful.”

John Favreau and Tommy Vietor are co – hosts on the left of center, Pod Save America.

Both worked for Barack Obama prior to and during his presidential administration.

Both have condemned social media posts that blame local Texans and the Trump administration for all who died as a result of the recent floods.

Favreau has said, “I think the really gross stuff was, I saw some people be, like, ‘Well, Texas, you voted for Trump, and this is what you get. ‘”

Favreau has also challenged suggestions that staffing levels at the National Weather Service (NWS) in Texas had anything to do with the tragedy. Favreau has said, “It seems like the National Weather Service, like I said, did send out a timely warning, it just didn’t get to people. And that’s, you know, not the Trump administration saying that independent meteorologists and experts have all said this.”

Vietor has said that while questions about the effect of NWS cuts could be “an important question going forward, I could have done without the, like, instant, you know, leap to blame name-your-political-opponent for this tragedy on Twitter.”

The “blame your political opponent” campaign on this tragedy is already well underway.

Shortly after news broke on the flooding, Senator Chuck Schumer demanded the Commerce Department’s Inspector General investigate vacancies at National Weather Service offices and whether the purported vacancies resulted in a higher death toll in in Texas.

Schumer has suggested that proposed but yet-to-be-implemented Trump budget cuts resulted in unfilled NWS positions in Texas were to blame. Senator Chris Dodd has said likewise.

Schumer has proclaimed, “The American people deserve answers.”

Yes, we do, but not from you two or anyone who has wants to advance a political agenda from this tragedy.

We deserve answers only if the following investigative guidelines are agreed to, in advance of, and are strictly adhered to during every phase of any investigation.

At a minimum, the investigation must not focus on assigning blame for what happened or did not happen with regard to timely and effective flash flood alerts.

The laser like focus must be on what can be done going forward to help ensure it never happens again.

Differing opinions must be welcome and considered provided they follow the timeless observation of former U.S. Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who once said, “Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but not their own facts.”

We also need to accept that we never have and never will live in a risk-free world.

We can only anticipate risks and take prudent steps to try to avoid them or deal with them if and when necessary. Accidents can never be totally avoided despite planning and best intentions.

Going forward, we desperately need a renewed universal commitment that when tragedies do strike, to make sure social media posts and other public reactions reflect common decency and respect for each and every person impacted in any way by that tragedy.

This is especially vital in dealing with those who hold different political party affiliations or different views on a wide range of public policy issues.

We must do so if we have any hope of reversing the steadily declining levels of decency and civility in our society.

David Reel is a public affairs and public relations consultant who live in Easton.

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Third Party Apostasy by Al Sikes

July 13, 2025 by Al Sikes 1 Comment

Shabang! The world’s richest man declares that he is going to start a new political party—America. Thoughts, from a registered Independent.

America’s prosperity, its root, is competition. We don’t want just one seller—we call that a monopoly. Or even two; pejoratively, we call that a duopoly. In short, we want a quick drive away, multiple grocers, service stations, or whatever.

Now with the Internet having been trained by Amazon, a veritable bonanza is a click away. But, not in politics. Those whose occupation is ruling others write laws that block others. Sort of, “if you don’t like what I’m selling that’s just too bad.”

If we retreat into history or political philosophy, we find the excuses, often voiced in the United States. Some will say that laws in Europe, for example, result in too many Parties and confusion. Or splinter Parties that are embarrassing. Or, power is too diffused. Yes, many European countries make it easier to qualify for the ballot.

In the United States, it is damnably expensive to begin and ultimately qualify a third party and gain recognition on the ballot in a large number of States. Our two dominant Parties disagree about much, but together they block competition and both overspend—the arrogance of concentrated power.

Physics told Musk that catching a rocket returning from space so it can be used again would be exceedingly difficult, but possible. He did it. Making billions of dollars is certainly not easy—he did it. And accumulating supporters and detractors by the millions is not easy, but he has also managed to do that. We all know there are ceilings in human affairs; Musk likes to defy them and sometimes proves us wrong.

In announcing the formation of a new Party, America, Musk said: “I am generally hopeful because I believe there are millions of voters who want a third choice. Who want to go beyond the Right and Left hardcores. Who wants, on the conservative side, to get beyond the shifting sensibilities of Donald Trump and on the more liberal side, not to have its values hijacked by AOC” (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez).

But, politics and Elon Musk have not been a harmonious pairing. He was all for Donald Trump and now he is adamantly against him. He views policy positions as either true or false. Most often they are not. Politics is not physics. It is messy because trying to create some level of cohesion in the midst of clashing points of view is really hard.

Where do you compromise on abortion? Or the shifting views on the importance of immigration given incendiary rhetoric? Or committing our troops to at least the appearance of being ready to fight for principles? Or, perhaps most importantly, which programs should we eliminate or downsize even though supported by strong lobbies and well-positioned Members of Congress?

Or how do you find personalities that are both compelling and comfortable with diffused power? Is it possible to be both? Or do we need versions of out-sized personalities whose North Star is the unilateral use of power?

If the word moderate is frequently used in third-party arguments, and it is, what does it mean? Is moderation defined by what a Party or candidate is against or can moderates pull together logic, needs and wants into an actual platform? Or, do they just want more or less than the dominant Parties?

And considering the name of his new Party, can America be hijacked as the name? And if so should the Party go back to the founding documents and attempt to animate the principles in specific programs? As compelling as the flag and patriotic music are, they do not spell out the terms of governing.

And, can Elon allow others to share the spotlight? Can he raise money with the necessary funds to outline philosophy and programs? Or is this just one more solo act in an orchestral setting?

Now this is the point where various commentators begin to handicap the potential of success. Most are negative. I’m not ready to say that Musk will fail because others have. His company, SpaceX, caught a descending rocket going 17,000 miles per hour. Not bad. However, achieving sustained viability for a third party will be exceedingly difficult and require actual collaboration. If this is a Musk-dominated initiative, it will fail.

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books.

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Bringing Joy Inside by Angela Rieck

July 10, 2025 by Angela Rieck 1 Comment

It is that time of the year. The hydrangeas are blooming everywhere. Mostly pink, but some blue hydrangeas are brightening our gardens. In my garden, gooseneck loosestrife is also blooming, it is a beautiful companion flower that has a white flower head in the shape of a goose neck and head.

Not only is it time to enjoy them outside, but hydrangeas also sparkle inside. It is an inexpensive way to bring beauty into our homes.

I looked for research on why bringing flowers inside is a good idea. I only found two studies, both commissioned by floral associations.

But there is something to be said about fresh flowers in your home. They brighten up the indoors, they bring the outdoors inside. Flowers make our home just a little prettier. Some people enjoy the scents, especially those from peonies whose sweet scent wafts throughout the room.

Flowers make us feel better. Hospitals have green areas and many patients have some kind of floral arrangement supplied by a caring person.

Just gazing at flowers can reduce stress. They make me smile every time I look at them.

Recently, I received a generous floral arrangement, it made my day. To be surrounded by such beautiful flowers that a loving person sent to me…how can I feel anything but joy?

There is some research that supports the benefits of flowers in the home and office. A Rutgers University study found that there is a link between flowers and life satisfaction. They concluded that presence of flowers in the environment triggers happy emotions and heightens feelings of satisfaction.

A study funded by a floral association in 2000 found that having fresh flowers in a workspace increased problem-solving abilities, boosted creative thoughts, and helped workers generate ideas. Participants in this eight-month study performed a series of problem-solving tasks in three common office environments: a workplace with plants and flowers, a workplace with abstract sculptures, and a workplace with no embellishments. Both male and female participants demonstrated more innovative thinking and generated more ideas and original solutions in settings with plants and flowers. Men who participated in the study generated 15% more ideas when working in the plant and flower surroundings. Females were more creative and flexible when plants and flowers were in the workspace.

Some of us just love flowers. On the Internet, I found that people who love flowers are described as having traits like kindness, sensitivity, and an appreciation for beauty and nature. Flower lovers are also frequently associated with being thoughtful, nurturing, and observant. But this is written by people who love flowers or people in the business of flowers, so I don’t give it much credence.

But what we do know is that flowers bought in the grocery store, delivered by a florist or picked from your backyard, just make the house a little bit happier.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Celebrating Historical ‘Good Footprints’ of Courage and Kindness in Delmarva with Jim Duffy

July 9, 2025 by Zack Taylor Leave a Comment

In his new book Ordinary Heroes of Old Delmarva, Jim Duffy spins yarns about some of Delmarva’s unsung historical heroes, whose bravery, compassion, and resilience reflect some enduring qualities of Eastern Shore society.

Since moving to Cambridge nearly two decades ago, author Jim Duffy has built a career weaving local tales of travel, culture, and history, capturing the spirit of Delmarva through his self-published books and storytelling.

After years of journalism with various magazines and academia in Baltimore and Chicago, Duffy began his literary journey from a practical standpoint, writing saleable travel guides, which evolved into a passion for uncovering Delmarva’s hidden histories.

Throughout his two previous Eastern Shore Road Trips collections, Duffy often wove travel historical narratives into tales from the region’s past into his text and lectures at local libraries and social centers, on local TV, and his website, Secrets of the Eastern Shore.

In his recently-published sixth book, Duffy takes a deeper historical dive with Ordinary Heroes of Old Delmarva, a compendium of related yarns about some of Delmarva’s unsung heroes of yore, whose extraordinary acts of bravery, compassion, and resilience that reflect some enduring qualities of Eastern Shore society.

The book’s 33 vignettes, drawn from online archives, historical society annals, and old books, span more than three centuries, with Talbot, Dorchester, and Queen Anne’s counties serving as mise-en-scène for many of the tales.

Delmarva’s history, he acknowledges, is rife with portraits of scoundrels, cutthroats, and scalawags throughout its colorful past. You won’t find any of that ilk in the current volume, he says. Maybe in the next one. Instead, it tells inspiring stories of uncelebrated personages, among them women, minorities, and immigrants.

“Every step we take, we walk on footsteps of the past,” Duffy told The Spy. “Sure, there are plenty of bad ones, but there are so many good footsteps . . . which not only take us back in time, but help us move forward.”

A self-described storyteller more than a historian, Duffy arranges his chapters with a rhythm that alternates between emotional highs and lows among the tales. From shipwreck rescues to acts of defiance against injustice, these stories highlight a universal human spirit rooted in Delmarva’s unique landscape.

One of the author’s favorites features Henry Callister, a flawed yet compassionate merchant originally from Liverpool in colonial Oxford, where, literally on the town dock, he encountered hundreds of starving French-Canadian refugees, expelled by the British from Nova Scotia after the French and Indian War, and deposited all across the Empire.

Notwithstanding his dubious reputation as a drinker and carouser, Callister set aside prejudices about the francophone refugees, especially their Catholicism, to help them. He collaborated with a local pastor to secure housing, even resorting to dropping refugees off on docks of wealthy Miles River landowners, who reluctantly took them in.

His efforts ensured their survival through a harsh winter, leaving a legacy of compassion and shared humanity that resonates today. Many among this Acadians are the forebears of Louisiana’s Cajun population.

Another inspiring character is Mary Banning, a late19th-century woman from Easton whose fascination with mushrooms led to an unexpected legacy. In an era when women were rarely recognized as scientists, Banning taught herself mycology, seeing in mushrooms a reflection of the divine in even the most overlooked corners of nature.

She poured her passion into a book, complete with watercolor renditions, ultimately identifying 23 new species. Her work was only discovered 91 years later to great acclaim, cementing her as a pioneer who defied societal constraints.

Banning’s story combines resilience, spirituality, and love for the natural world, underscoring Duffy’s theme of finding glory in the underappreciated. These tales, carefully researched and vividly told, invite readers to reflect on the past while considering how to leave their own footprints in the present.

Self-published and available at over 20 shops and bookstores across the Delmarva Peninsula, as well as online, Ordinary Heroes of Old Delmarva is a testament to Duffy’s skill at storytelling as a means of connection.

“I hope that together, these stories explore the universality of the human condition, set on Delmarva,” he says.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

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